


captain³

by pendules



Series: captain³ [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted in September, 2007.</p>
    </blockquote>





	captain³

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Капитан³](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796209) by [Ampaseh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ampaseh/pseuds/Ampaseh)



> Originally posted in September, 2007.

_S. is: indifferent about some things (about him)._

_J. is: eager (about everything)._

_And that's where it all starts, and ends, and why D. regrets._

 

It's Stevie first, and you're the one who asked for it (he never let you forget; he's good at that, being the quiet, brooding, constant reminder). Maybe that went well with him (he doesn't refuse either), because as modest as he may be sometimes, he's always his own captain. Always.

 

John talks a lot; he's young, and happy (mostly), and he doesn't let anyone forget that. He's needy too, but he won't admit it, and you don't say anything, because, apparently, he still needs a captain of his own. You still don't know why he (you) did it, but it happens, and afterwards, you wonder if maybe it was because Frank was unconscious, or lying in a puddle of his own vomit in the bathroom (or both). Or something.

"What, you wanted to fuck him too?"

And you smile, you smile, and shake your head, thinking _there's something seriously up with this kid_ , and you don't know if it's an excess of guts or a major deficiency of brains.

You start reconsidering this when he calls you a month after, drunk, whining on about something or the other, and you probably would have listened if you weren't in Iker's bed at the time.

 

Stevie doesn't call at all after the first (and only) time. From what you hear, he's met some Spanish guy of his own.

 

And you're sure that two years ago, or even one, this wouldn't have been you. An afternoon in May, all alone, and watching Chelsea play Liverpool. And you're not thinking about what it'd be like to be there yourself, but rather pondering on the way John tucks his head into the crook of Stevie's neck, and how he whispers into his ear—their arms around each other, fingertips into backs, and hips, and it lasts only a second, you're sure, but the moment seems to be frozen in your mind for much longer than that.

You wonder if they ever fucked each other, and you feel jealous about something completely different. (That Stevie actually brings himself to smile genuinely in his presence, brings himself to care; that John can actually shut the fuck up in his.)

 

But what you really admire is the way they interact on the pitch, whether playing in the same colours, or in contrasting ones, the way they respect. The way they don't have to give (each other) any more than they have to, but they do anyway. The way they choose one (to replace you), and not the other, but they act together, like halves to one persona. It makes you strangely proud of yourself (for the first time), that it means so much to them, that it is, after all, a hard place to fill. (You took that for granted.)

You've never thought of it this way, but captaincy is another one of those confidence things (football is a confidence thing), and how strange it is that it took giving up yours to feel it.

 

Maybe it's them, and something in their eyes, both, the Scouser, and the Londoner.

(John looks over at you, and he seems a bit wistful, as if he's missing some part of him from before. You, however, know you won't ever, because that part's always with you; it never leaves.

He's changed though.

Stevie, you know, won't ever. 

You don't know if you love or hate that. The same way you don't know if to admire or pity them both.)

 

You guess you love Stevie like you love your kids. He believes in things, the kind of belief that's supposed to be taken away by the hardships of adulthood (but in him, it only seems to be reinforced with age). It isn't innocence, but you just don't see that in anyone (not even yourself when you were younger; you were, and are, good at covering things up— _that smile_ —but you were never as honest as that). You wonder if he truly loves anyone in that kind of way. (After falling in love with a team, and a city, and some nights in distant places, it's a hard task to accomplish; it'll surely entitle them to some sort of bragging rights: _Steven Gerrard loves me._ You're jealous, again.)

John probably treats you like a father (loves you like one). You don't deserve it, you don't deserve anything. You hardly know anything about him (about them), but you know you hurt him sometime ago; he hasn't recovered. You don't know, really, if you're sorry. (Stevie isn't. John's only sorry for himself.)

(What you know is: you've all found replacements and then replacements for those replacements, but maybe it wasn't about love or happiness—)

 

But it's two years after you first see them play against each other (and it's happening again) when you realise that they've taken (between them) everything you had (wanted), and for the first time, you think about a home that's not Madrid (but the one that introduced to you the very idea of home).

 

And they are there, being the captain(s), with their wives, and kids, and whatever they can get on the side, though it isn't that impersonal (you know, you know how it can be, how lonely it can be, and sometimes you have to just take things without rational thought). You're happy for them when they win, sad when they lose (when _you_ lose; things aren't going too well, and no, it isn't because of you, because you're missed, you tell yourself, it really isn't—things change, and sometimes it's just not meant to be), and there are grey areas, yes, but you don't think on that too much. Instead you think about 2004 (when it was simple, when things weren't "meant to be" in that dramatic, profound sense, but were just right, and comfortable), and when you had them both, regardless of circumstance.

 

Maybe it's a symbiotic relationship. Maybe it's a way to test loyalty, or the rings on their fingers that became official twenty-four hours apart. Maybe it's strength (of one) making up for weakness (of another), or the clash between red and blue (like the geometry of the Union Jack). You're probably the white in all of this.

(You wish they'd stain you again.)


End file.
